G'day! Pull up a chair! Join me at the kitchen table for a chat...let's toss a few thoughts around about the state of this crazy but wonderful world we inhabit. There's lots to discuss! Make yourself comfortable! Would you like a glass of wine?

Sunday, March 02, 2014

CHAPTER TWO...SPONTANEITY MORE TIMES THAN NOT IS ALWAYS THE BEST!

Overview of Chillagoe

Public Bar

Central Hotel (It was painted maroon when I was there in late 1989)

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words....

Two Views of Red Dome Mine

Firstly, to clarify my erroneous description of the workings of air brakes
on prime movers – I thank “goatman” in setting me straight; putting me on the
right track. His comment, shown below, shows my description was upside down,
inside out and the wrong way about!Just
as well I didn’t make a career change!

“…the
air pressure on the big rigs holds the brake shoe off of the brake drum. Some
kind of safely device, I guess, in case the rig loses pressure the brakes will
work to stop the truck. This is why you will hear an escapement of air when
they stop -- releasing pressure, applying the brakes…”

Once again I comfortably settled in the passenger seat with not a worry in
the world. Sprocket was back in his
rightful position behind the wheel in control of the “beast”. (Meaning the Kenworth, not me)!
My brief moment in the sun as a prime mover of a prime mover was over and
done with forever and a day. It had been my one and only opportunity to show my
mettle as a big wheel in charge of a big wheeler.

A lesson sometimes learned through life is if one always plays it safe; if risks
and challenges aren’t taken, one can miss out on so much.It is possible we can live to regret the
chances we never took.It can
be fun and exhilarating at times to jump into the deep end without a life-jacket…or seat
belt!

Not long after my trip to Chillagoe with Sprocket another challenge was
placed before me. It proved to be one I had no choice other than to accept
because it was too exciting a challenge/adventure not to step out into the
unknown and take a chance; but on this particularly balmy Saturday afternoon, the subject of this tale, I was blissfully
unaware of what was in store for me.I
was too wrapped up living in the moment.

The afternoon was sunny with a blue clear sky; pleasantly warm, not hot.The landscape, although stark, had a unique,
breathtaking beauty. Lulled by the movement of the truck as it rolled smoothly along
the bitumen, and by the deep, but not throaty rumble of its huge engine I drank
in the visual resplendence of the countryside.

I was brought back to the reality of the moment when we cruised to a stop
outside Chillagoe’s Post Office Hotel.
The pub is situated on the town’s main street, Queen Street.From what I saw the main street wasn’t the
hub of a bustling metropolis, but that was more than half its charm.The town has two pubs, a general store and
not much else; but that doesn’t diminish its appeal.

These small outback/country towns scattered throughout this vast land of
ours hold many told and untold stories. They abound in history; and they exude
an attraction difficult to define.
It is where the “real” people dwell. And these “real” people have some
wonderful, real stories to tell; and they enjoy telling those stories.A lot of bull manure is spread around, too,
but it spread with good humour, rarely with malice. It is part of who they are.They have an intangible essence that’s almost
tangible, if that makes sense. They work hard; they battle the elements, and
more times than not come off second best; but they grit their teeth, shake off
the dust in preparation to fight another day; another drought; another bush
fire or another flood. Rarely do they
give up the fight. They are made of steel; they are admirable people.I discovered this in spades when I was relief
manager for a brief period of three weeks at the Central Hotel in Normanton,
out in the Gulf Country of north-western Queensland
only a few months before my trip to Chillagoe. (I wrote about my Normanton adventure back in March,
2007).

Entering the pub I was surprised to see how quiet it was. The pub was almost empty. Other than Sprocket and me, there were about
six other drinkers leaning on the bar pensively pondering upon the cold beers
in front of them.They barely raised
their heads as we walked in.It was
obvious our entrance caused little interest.
Rather than sit at the bar, Sprocket and I chose a high table next to the
front wall and windows of the pub.Perched up on a high bar stool with rum and Cokes at hand we were only
there a short while when a bloke sauntered across to us and asked if we minded
if he joined us a while.

We said, “No…of course not; join us! The more the merrier!”

His interest had been alerted when he saw the Kenworth pull in.As it turned out, he, too, was a
truckie.His rig was parked further down
the road.He introduced himself as
“Dave”. Once the initial formalities were over (which didn’t take very long), we
were chatting like long-lost mates.

We laughed when he told us the publican’s wife cried out in excitement upon
seeing our rig pull to a stop outside the pub.

“Oh! Great!” She exclaimed. “The beer truck has arrived!”

She was a slight, short in stature, Filipino woman. I thought at the time
she was probably a newcomer to the Aussie outback.Sprocket’s tanker did have some yellow and
red colours painted on it, so to an untrained, unfamiliar eye, I guess, at a
glance a mistake could be made…maybe…

I giggled to myself as I imagined Sprocket and I pumping beer from the
tanker into the hotel’s kegs!If I’d
tried to reverse the rig there, I might have taken out the pub!

As Dave, Sprocket and I conversed the “Six Degrees of Separation” theory soon
came into play.
Dave, as it turned out, worked for a fellow named “Lennie Robinson” whom I’d
met briefly years and years previously…in 1963 in Gympie….1,671.3 kms
(1038 miles) and 27 years away!

Back then Len Robinson not only drove his own truck, but he operated a little
trucking business between Gympie and Maryborough, as well. More importantly,
however, his main claim to fame was he bought and owned the first E-type Jaguar
in Queensland.
As fate would have it he was a friend of friends. When he was in town visiting
family at one stage he took me for a ride in the E-type!Wow! That was a ride of my life, too!

Over the years, apparently from what Dave told us, Lennie’s business grew in
leaps and bounds. He’d become a wealthy man from his trucking exploits. Dave was
employed as one of his truckies. Also, Lennie, who, at that point operated out
of Nambour, a town south of Gympie, from memory, collected jaguars of various
models; sedans and E-types.
And to go further in the degrees of separation (perhaps closeness is more
appropriate), when I moved back to Gympie to live and work in 1998,
coincidentally, my neighbours on one side for the four years I lived there were
the brother and sister-in-law of Len Robinson!Lennie, by that stage in time, lived in our nation’s capital, Canberra. He was still a collector of jaguars of the motorised kind.

The world, certainly at times, is a small place….

The afternoon drew to a close. Dusk turned into darkness.

Dave had gone on his way, as had, when we weren’t taking notice, all the
rest of the drinkers, the whole six of them!Sprocket and I were left to our own devices.Periodically, a patron or two sauntered into
the public bar, but not many more than that number.
The room off to the side of the public bar that housed a few dining tables,
a jukebox and a couple of billiard tables was deathly quiet.The lack of fellow Saturday night revelers
didn’t bother us.We were content within
each others' company.
The publican asked if we wished to dine. Suddenly we realised we were
hungry.Shortly thereafter, in time to
catch the cook before he signed off for the night, we enjoyed a hearty pub meal
at one of the tables.Two other tables
were occupied; by a couple of people apiece.We lingered long over our meal.The leisurely ambience of the pub was contagious. There seemed no reason
to be in a hurry. At dinner’s end we drifted back out to our original spot in
the public bar where we discovered the crowd had grown to four.Our table and stools by the front window had
remained vacant.The other drinkers in
the public bar soon drifted off to greener or, perhaps, dustier pastures.Perhaps, they were on a promise.

Around about 9.30 pm the publican began shutting windows, doors and
shutters.Sprocket and I looked at each
other. We decided it was time for us to make a move. We had no intentions of
driving anywhere.We were going to camp overnight
in the cabin of the prime mover, and head out to Red Dome Mine to off-load the
lime in the morning.

We began to stir; to make our departure.We told the publican as he leaned across to close the windows near where
we were sitting that we’d be on our way; we’d get out of his hair.While thanking him for his hospitality we asked
if he minded we leave the rig where it was parked, overnight. He said he didn’t
mind in the least.

“Not at all!” He gushingly replied.“But
you don’t have to leave yet. I’m not closing up. I’m not trying to shoo you
off. Have another drink or two.There’s
no hurry! Stay as long as you like.”

Subtly, Sprocket and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

The publican had closed all doors and windows…if that wasn’t closing up,
what, in Chillagoe, at the Post Office Hotel, was classed as “closing up”?

The publican had not long further extended his hospitality and our visit when
suddenly the world exploded around us. A crowd entered the pub from all
directions, out of nowhere, it seemed. People were coming out of the woodwork! The pub erupted into life.The jukebox kicked into gear. Music blasted
forth. The click of billiard balls rang through the air. Four-wheel drives,
many rigged up for pig-shooting, arrived in droves. Fellows poured out of the
vehicles and into the pub.
It became apparent night life in Chillagoe began after 10 pm! And boy!It started with a bang!

Employees from the surrounding mines had arrived, making their presence known.Suddenly
there was a feeling of the “Wild West” about it all. The pub was bursting at
the seams!

We stuck around for a while, but then finally decided to call it a night,
leaving the night to the celebrators.

The noise emanating from the pub didn’t disturb us.The tightly-closed doors and windows dampened
the volume.It was happy noise; and
there is a difference between happiness and trouble, in my opinion. The laughter and music faded into the
background as, effortlessly, slumber took over.

With the morning sun we, too, rose.The call of the road beckoned. It was impossible to ignore. We were on
our way…to Red Dome Mine.

Once at the mine it didn’t take long to empty the tanker of its cargo. This
time I stayed seated in the cabin on the passenger side; and quite happy to do so.I had no urgent desire to tempt fate again.To be honest, I wasn’t asked to assist in the
operation.

Job done…we headed back to Mareeba where Sprocket and I bid each other
farewell.He went his way, and I went
mine.I jumped into my car that had
remained safe and untouched overnight, parked where I’d left it opposite the
Ant Hill Hotel.

Driving back to Clifton
Beach I was absorbed in
my thoughts of the previous 24 hours or so I’d just enjoyed.Everything that had happened had been unexpected and unplanned. My weekend had been spontaneous; full of surprises. It was an
experience that has remained with me all these years.

G'day Jerry...Yes..Fosters was a big seller in the States. I'm not a fan of Four XXXX (I'm a bit of a traitor as it's a Queensland beer - although now owned by Lions Nathan, a Japanese company). I always preferred Fosters over Four XXXX.

Castlemaine-Perkins began brewing their beer at their brewery in Milton, an inner suburb of Brisbane in 1878.

Foster's was out of Melbourne, Victoria, and began in 1888, merging with Carlton United Breweries in the early 1900s. I've always preferred Carlton beers...Crown Lager, for instance, which is a great beer/lager. If and when I have a beer, which isn't very often, I will have a Crownie. Foster's is very hard to find here in Aus these days

Foster's is now brewed in Britain...better still - Fosters Lager is brewed by Scottish & Newcastle Breweries from Edinburgh.

Ah, so many times I would like to hit the road on a moment's notice, though I don't know how long I could sit still in a pub. If they have music and/or dancing it might help. Do they often have music in Aussie pubs in those smaller towns? Curious to know.

Dave, music in an Aussie country pub is a common, regular addition to the atmosphere. Country folk love their music; and they love their country music, too as well as other genres.

Sitting still in a pub, enjoying couple of drinks and a good conversation and laughter can be lots of fun; particularly if you've not seen that person for a while; and particularly on a lazy Saturday afternoon/night...not that I've done so for a long, long time.